


Grief

by JamiAlexandra7



Series: fem!Parentlock [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Discussion of Abortion, F/F, Femlock, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Mrs Hudson's herbal soothers, Nightmares, Parentlock, Recreational Drug Use, Sad Fluff, This is the sad part of the series, check end notes for trigger warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7621135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamiAlexandra7/pseuds/JamiAlexandra7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A late-night phone call changes everything, testing Jo and Sherlock's faith in one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phonecall

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Leisha and Torry for their help and advice!

The phone rang in the middle of the night, startling Sherlock, who hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep. Sherlock grabbed for her phone and checked the caller ID - _unknown number._ “Hello?"

"Is this Sherlock Holmes?"

"It is, yes."

"Ms Holmes, I'm calling from the A&E department at St Bartholomew's. Your partner Johanna Watson is here."

"Yes, my _wife_ works there. Is there a problem?"

"She's been admitted, actually."

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, Ms Holmes -”

“Sherlock, please.” Mycroft’s staff called her _Ms Holmes_ , and the honorific in this context made her skin crawl with anxiety. (It was also technically incorrect - she was legally Mrs Holmes-Watson, now - but she didn’t waste time on trivialities.)

“Sherlock, then. I’m sorry, but Johanna's been admitted. Doctor Singh is going to check on her soon, but she asked me to call you first.”

“Why was she admitted? She was fine when she left. What's wrong? Is she alright?”

“I’m sorry, dear, she asked me not to tell you. But she said that if you answered to ask you to come in. She's not in any real danger, I can tell you that much.” The receptionist sounded apologetic and kind, and Sherlock liked them despite herself, despite the reason they were calling.

"If I call her mobile, will she be able to answer it?”

“If Doctor Singh isn't with her, and if she has it on her, then yes. She's going to be fine, but she wants you here. Oh, and if you could bring her a change of clothes, I'm sure she would appreciate it. Something comfortable.”

“I will, thank you. Can you let her know I'm on my way?”

“Sure, love. Take care of each other, alright? Johanna’s one of our best doctors, and a good friend.”

“Yes, thank you.” Sherlock had hardly heard a word of what the receptionist had said beyond _Johanna’s been admitted_ . She dressed and packed an overnight bag in a daze, dozens of scenarios flashing through her head, each worse than the last. Working in A &E could have any number of risks - violent patients, dropped equipment, _anything_ \- and Sherlock’s head was spinning, imagining worst case scenarios. What had happened? Was she sick? Injured?

It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that it wasn’t just Jo who could be in danger - what if something had happened to the baby? Jo was barely eight weeks pregnant… any number of things could have happened to either or both of them. Sherlock’s stomach dropped as another flood possibilities rushed through her mind.

The taxi ride to the hospital passed in a blur of anxiety. The cabbie must have spoken to her, but she didn’t respond, wasn’t paying any attention. It wasn’t until she was handed a tissue with her change that she realised that she was crying. She touched one hand to her cheek, and it came away wet.

The nurse who had called Sherlock was waiting at the desk for her. She took one look at Sherlock’s tear-stained face and pulled her into a warm, maternal hug. Under any other circumstances Sherlock would have resisted so much close contact from a stranger, but the nurse reminded her of her grandmother. She let herself be held for a moment, the knot of anxiety in her chest loosening.

“There, enough of that now,” the nurse said soothingly. “Your Johanna is going to be fine, but she needs you to be strong for her now. Can you do that?”

Sherlock nodded, biting her lip to stop it trembling. “I want to see her.”

“Of course you do, dear. Come on, I'll take you back. She’s got herself a private room, lucky girl.”

“My brother’s doing, no doubt.”

The nurse knocked on the open door to Jo's room and poked her head in. “Someone here to see you, hon.”

Sherlock pushed past her without waiting for Jo to respond, frantic all over again despite the nurse’s steadying presence.

Jo was sitting half-upright on the bed, wearing a hospital gown and wrapped in a heavy blanket. She looked pale and tired, the faint lines around her eyes and mouth pinched deeper with stress and pain. She had obviously been crying, but she wiped her eyes and smiled bravely when she saw Sherlock.

“Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I woke you.”

Sherlock flung herself at Jo, running her shaking hands over every part of her she could reach, both reassuring herself of Jo’s existence and checking for any obvious damage. “Jo! Are you - I thought - are - ?”

Jo tugged Sherlock up on the bed with her, wrapping her in a hug. Sherlock was shaking. “Shh, I’m alright. I’m alright, sweetheart, shh, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

“You’re obviously not okay, you’re in a hospital bed!” Sherlock protested through her tears.

Jo sort of shrugged. “Well, we’re not sure there’s anything wrong, yet, bee. It’s just a precaution for now, okay?”

A knock on the open door interrupted Sherlock’s reply. “Sorry to interrupt Dr Watson, but the ultrasound machine will be free in a few minutes, so I thought I’d come in and have a look before that happens.”

Jo looked up. “Hi Dr Singh. Thanks for coming in to see me so quickly, I know you were on your lunch break.” Her voice took on a falsely cheerful tone. “And please, call me Jo. I’m a patient tonight, after all. And this is my wife, Sherlock. I don’t think you’ve met?”

Sherlock nodded tersely. “Pleasure. Now, could you tell me why, exactly, my wife is in a hospital bed rather than doing her job?”

Dr Singh gave Sherlock a slightly indulgent smile,  then turned to Jo. “Did you want to tell her, or shall I?”

“I am not a _child_ ,” Sherlock protested, “just tell me what’s going on.”

“Sweetheart,” Jo started hesitantly, “do you remember the midwife saying that we should wait until I’m twelve weeks to announce the pregnancy? Because the risk of miscarriage drops?”

“Yes. The risk of miscarriage decreases around seven weeks, when the heartbeat becomes audible, and then again at twelve weeks, at the end of the first trimester. I _am_ capable of both reading the pamphlets they leave in the waiting room and using the internet.”

Jo rolled her eyes, but smiled slightly despite the situation. “Yes, thank you Professor Google.” She sighed and took Sherlock’s hand. “Sherlock, I… it’s possible that I’m going to miscarry, love. I’ve been bleeding a lot for the last few hours.”

Sherlock shook her head and stood stiffly, pacing away from Jo’s hospital bed before turning back to face Jo. She didn’t say anything, just blinked owlishly.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Jo said after a long moment of silence. “I know how much you wanted this.”

Sherlock blinked again, then seemed to come back to herself. “It’s not your fault.” She crossed back over to Jo’s bedside and took her hands, nearly frantic with worry all over again. “That’s why they admitted you, isn’t it? The bleeding? Are you in a lot of pain? Is there anything I can do?”

“I was while I was working. I had pretty bad cramps, but I was busy so I just ignored it. I’ve got a hot water bottle now, and they gave me some paracetamol, so it’s not too bad.” Jo lifted Sherlock’s hand to her mouth and kissed it. “I’m alright.”

“All - alright. Okay. As long as you’re comfortable, for now. I guess.”

Jo wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist, pulling her closer. “Are you alright, sweetheart? You’re shaking a bit.”

“Fine, yes. I’m fine. Can we. Um. Can we go home, soon?”

Dr Singh cleared her throat awkwardly, interrupting. “As soon as I examine Jo and do an ultrasound, you’re both free to go home. It’s already late, I won’t keep you any longer than necessary.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly. She leaned her head against Jo, who turned and kissed her temple.

A nurse knocked on the open door frame. “Dr Singh, the lab results for Dr Watson are here.”

“Excellent, thank you.” Dr Singh accepted the file from the nurse and closed the door, flipping through the papers. “Your hCG is a bit low, which isn’t a great sign. Everything else looks good, though.”

Jo’s already pale face went paler. “How low is low?”

“Low enough for concern, unfortunately.” Dr Singh’s voice was sympathetic. “We should do a pelvic exam to check for cervical dilation, but if the cramping is too bad we can just do an ultrasound, keep an eye on things that way. What do you think?”

“The pelvic exam is more conclusive, right? Since the heartbeat can sometimes be hard to hear?”

“That’s right,” Dr Singh agreed. “Ideally we’d do both, but I know you’re probably eager to get home to bed.”

Jo looked at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock nodded back, squeezing her hand tight. “I think we should do both,” Jo said firmly. “Especially since my hCG is low. It’s better safe than sorry, right?”

“Whatever you prefer,” Dr Singh said agreeably. She scrubbed her hands in the sink in the corner of the room and snapped on a pair of rubber gloves. “Shall we get started, then?”

Wrinkling her nose, Jo nodded. “Yeah, let’s get it over with.” She had worked with Dr Singh before, and knew that while she tended to be rather brisk and efficient, she was also gentle and a skilled doctor. That didn’t mean she was looking forward to it, though.

Sherlock shifted to sit in a chair next to the bed rather than halfway in Jo’s lap, but didn’t let go of her hand. “Alright?” she asked.

“I’m fine, love. Just crampy. Want to take you home and go to bed.”

Dr Singh touched Jo’s knee to get her attention. “I’m going to examine you now hon. Ready?”

The exam was was quick and relatively painless, although the cramps made it more than a little uncomfortable. Jo curled in on herself a little when Dr Singh removed her hands, trying to relieve some of the renewed cramping. Sherlock shifted back onto the bed, gently lifting Jo’s head and shoulders until they rested in her lap. She ran her fingers softly through Jo’s messy, sweat-damp hair, silently offering comfort and reassurance.

Dr Singh didn’t look up at them while they resettled themselves. Without meeting Jo’s eyes, she turned back to the sink to dispose of her gloves and wash her hands. She stood for a few minutes with her back to the room, fussing with the bottle of lubricant, the box of gloves, anything near at hand, to avoid turning around.

After several long moments of uncomfortable silence, Sherlock cleared her throat. “Is… did she - um. Is she - Is the…?”

Dr Singh finally turned away from the sink, but didn’t answer. Her forehead was creased and she wrung her hands together, clearly reluctant to speak.

“Doctor Singh…?”

The doctor sighed. “You’re a couple of centimetres dilated - no more than two or three. But at this point, you’re almost certainly going to lose the pregnancy,” she said quietly. “I’m so, so sorry.” When no answer came from either of the women in the hospital bed, she moved towards the door, looking uncertain. “I’ll leave you two alone for a few minutes, shall I? Excuse me…”

Jo just nodded, tears washing down her cheeks. Sherlock squeezed her hand tightly, then let go to bury her head in both hands. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.


	2. Heartbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The immediate aftermath isn't easy on either of them

After a long moment, Sherlock felt a hand on her shoulder. She lifted her head to find the nurse from earlier looking down at her, her expression sympathetic. “I’m so sorry, dear,” she said softly. “Losing a baby is heartbreaking.”

Sherlock swallowed hard and scrubbed her hands over her eyes. “I… yes,” she stammered, unable to think of anything else to say.

The nurse straightened up and extended her hand. “Why don't you come sort out your Johanna’s discharge papers, and I’ll make you a cuppa. Alright?”

Sherlock glanced over at Jo. She was curled on her side, facing away from her - she looked like she was sleeping. Looking back up at the nurse, Sherlock nodded silently, deciding not to disturb her for the moment.

One warm arm wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders, the nurse guided her to her feet, then out the door and to the nurses’ station. “There, now, let’s get you sorted out here.” She bustled around behind the desk, fixing two cups of tea and fussing with the paperwork.

Sherlock glanced uneasily back toward Jo’s room, The nurse clearly wanted to settle in for a proper heart-to-heart, but Sherlock was unwilling to leave Jo alone for any longer than strictly necessary.

“Don’t fret, lovey,” the nurse said soothingly, having noticed Sherlock’s distraction. “I’ll let you go back to your sweetheart soon. I just wanted to check in with you. Are you alright?”

Slightly surprised at the question, Sherlock didn’t answer right away. She read through the discharge papers quickly before signing them, then looked up. “I… I’m about as well as can be expected,” she answered finally, pleased that she sounded marginally more composed than she felt. “I’m mostly worried about Jo. She was raised in a very sexist, traditional household. As well as the physical discomfort of miscarrying, she is likely to see this as a personal failure.” It was more than Sherlock had intended to say, and she flushed slightly. “Sorry, you probably aren’t interested in the details.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” the nurse - Sherlock really should have asked her name - said warmly. “It’s understandable for you to be concerned. Her poor body’s going through quite the upheaval, at the moment.”

Sherlock took a sip of the strong, sugary tea the nurse had placed in front of her to steady herself. “Is - is there anything I can do to make it easier for her?” She didn’t much like having to admit her uncertainty to, and request help from, someone who wasn’t Jo, especially a near-stranger. But this was important - this was _for Jo_.

“Be strong for her, as much as you can,” the nurse replied. She covered one of Sherlock’s hands with her own and squeezed it warmly. “She’ll need you to lean on. A bit of pampering wouldn’t go amiss, either, I would bet. Just let her know you’re there for her, and look after her. She should be right as rain soon enough.”

“There’s nothing else I can do? How - I don’t know what to do, or what to say - what am -” Sherlock took a shaky breath. “I just… I can’t stand to see her hurting.”

“I think you’ll know what to do,” the nurse assured her. “It’s clear how much you care about her. Just let her know she can lean on you. Now, are those papers signed?”

Sherlock nodded. She slid the completed paperwork across the counter to the nurse, then gulped the last of her tea. “Thank you for the tea and advice, but I really should get back to my wife now.”

“Of course, dear. If you need anything else before you leave, you just let me know.”

“Thank you.”

When Sherlock got back to Jo’s room, she hadn’t moved at all. She was still curled up on her side, facing away from where Sherlock had been sitting. In fact, the only change to the scene was Jo’s bag and coat, which one of her colleagues must have brought from the staff room.

“Jo?” Sherlock asked hesitantly, walking around to sit gingerly on the bed near Jo’s knees. “I’ve gotten your discharge papers sorted, and someone’s brought your things. Do you want to go home?”

Jo stirred, blinking sleepy eyes up at Sherlock. “Yes, please. Call a taxi, would you, bee?”

Sherlock leaned down and smoothed Jo’s hair back, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “It’s on its way. I brought you pyjamas, if you don’t want to put your street clothes back on.”

Jo smiled halfheartedly, pushing herself upright. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

By the time Jo had changed and gathered her things, both women were nearly asleep on their feet. Sherlock had composed herself enough to lead Jo out of the hospital and into a waiting taxi, then tucked her under her arm. Jo was asleep as soon as the taxi pulled away from the curb; Sherlock watched the city flash by the window, silent tears coursing down her cheeks.

When the taxi pulled on to Baker Street, Sherlock wiped her cheeks and nudged Jo awake. She paid the fare, then jumped out to open Jo’s door for her. She wrapped an arm around her waist, helping her out of the taxi and up to their flat. “Do you want anything? I can make tea, if you want?”

“I need a shower, and then I’m going to bed. The last thing I need right now is caffeine.”

“I - of course. Do you want me to wash your hair for you? Or - I don’t know, I can just keep you company, if you want?” Sherlock offered. She felt like she was supposed to be doing something, anything, for Jo, to make this easier for her, but she had no idea _what_. The not-knowing was making her anxious.

“No, you go to bed. I’d really, really like to be by myself for a few minutes.”

Sherlock’s heart sank. “Oh. Alright, I - yes. I’ll just… I’ll leave you alone, then.”

Jo frowned, seeming to realise she’d been a bit abrupt. She reached up and tucked a loose curl behind Sherlock’s ear. “Hey,” she said. Sherlock refused to meet her eyes. Jo put a finger under her chin. “Look at me. I love you.”

“I love you, too…” Sherlock’s voice shook slightly.

“Thank you for being there tonight. I wouldn’t have been able to get through that without you.”

“Of course, Jo,” Sherlock replied, as if it was obvious. “Whatever you need.”

Jo leaned up and kissed her softly. “Thank you, sweetheart. Go get some sleep.”

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, sweetheart.” Jo kissed her cheek and pushed her gently away, toward their bedroom. “Go on, go to bed.”

“Goodnight, then,” Sherlock said, still slightly uncertain that she ought to be leaving Jo alone at all.

“Goodnight.”

Sherlock settled into bed to wait for Jo to finish her shower. In the quiet darkness of their bedroom, she allowed herself a moment to cry. She buried her face in her hands and her shoulders shook, but she didn’t allow herself to make any noise.

Jo must have fumbled something in the shower. There was a sudden loud clatter, and Sherlock jumped, the noise interrupting her tears. She smiled weakly and wiped at her eyes, listening to Jo curse out the dropped bottle. The interruption was a welcome one, reminding Sherlock that she was not alone in the flat with her grief. There was a heavy, dull ache in her chest that she suspected would lessen if she let herself continue to cry, if she let Jo comfort her, but she refused to allow herself the leeway. The nurse had been right: she needed to be strong for Jo. Her own grief could wait.

With that thought in mind, Sherlock set herself to the task of boxing up and shoving aside everything she was feeling: her residual anxiety and fear and panic; her grief and sorrow and loss; her disappointment and anger and bitterness. All of it, set aside to be dealt with later, if at all. She focused instead on Jo, on _her_ grief and pain, and on everything she had stored in her Mind Palace about comforting a loved one, on being supportive and caring and as helpful as possible. Sherlock was so absorbed in figuring out how best to take care of Jo, she barely noticed when her thoughts turned into uncomfortable dreams as she fell into a restless, shallow sleep.

When Jo crawled into bed after her shower, Sherlock was sleeping soundly, a deep frown on her beautiful face. Despite not feeling like talking and having told Sherlock to get some sleep, Jo couldn’t help but feel slightly put out. She had both wanted and _not_ wanted Sherlock to be awake, to pull her close and comfort her before they fell asleep together. Scowling, Jo curled up away from Sherlock and tried hard not to think of anything until she fell asleep.

 

 _The baby was crying. The baby was crying, and it was very, very dark. The baby was crying and it was very, very dark and Jo_ **_couldn't find her._ **

_She started searching, running in the direction of the cries, but never getting any closer. It was so dark, as if she and the crying baby were the only things that existed. Where was she? How could Jo have lost her, how could she be so careless?_

_She was running, and running, and running, and going nowhere, and she couldn’t stop and she couldn’t catch her breath._

_A small, warm light appeared, like a candle or a child’s nightlight. The baby’s cries were soothed and turned to whimpers. As Jo drew closer to the light - which turned out to be a small nightlight shaped like a smiling bumblebee - she saw why. A little girl, no older than four or five, was holding the bundle of blankets and baby, whispering soothingly to her._

_The little girl looked accusingly up at Jo. “Why don't you love us, Mummy?” she asked. She was crying, her cheeks wet with tears and her bottom lip trembling. “Why don't you love us?”_

_Jo was crying now, too. “Of course I do. Of course I love you, sweetheart. Why would you say that?”_

_“You didn't love me. You didn't want me.”_

_The baby in the child’s arms was crying again, wailing and waving her arms._

_“You didn't love us enough to keep us.”_

_Jo felt something drip against the inside of her thigh and looked down. She was bleeding, her legs smeared with dark brown-red blood._

Jo woke up sobbing and drenched with sweat. The cramps low in her belly sharpened, and she curled in on herself. Her breathing was harsh and ragged. _Nightmare_ , she realised, _just a nightmare. I’m fine._ That didn't do anything to stop her nearly hyperventilating, though.

“Jo?” Sherlock asked sleepily, shifting closer and wrapping long arms around her. “Are you alright?”

“Nightmare,” Jo said shortly. As much as she appreciated Sherlock being there, she didn’t much feel like talking. “I’m fine.”

She _felt_ Sherlock resist the urge to roll her eyes. “You’re very clearly _not_ _fine,_ Johanna.” her voice softened. “You’re hyperventilating. You need to try and slow your breathing down.”

“M’fine,” Jo insisted, panting slightly as she tried to get her breathing under control. “Go back to sleep.”

“No, you’re not. Take a deep breath, Jo.” Sherlock instructed softly.

“Sherlock…”

“Humor me, please?” Sherlock slid her hand down to rest on Jo’s stomach. “Try to breathe into my hand.”

Jo did, inhaling shakily. Behind her, Sherlock nodded. “Good. Hold it… two… three… good, let it out, slowly.”

They continued like that for several minutes, Sherlock counting softly in Jo’s ear, her breathing just audible enough for Jo to easily match it.

“Thank you,” Jo said eventually.

“Do you want to talk about the nightmare?” Sherlock asked.

Jo hesitated. “I… no, sweetheart. I really don’t.” She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. “I think I’m just going to try to sleep a little longer before we have to get up.”

“You’re sure? Because I wouldn’t mind. If you did want to talk about it, that is.”

“I'm fine, love.”

“Jo -”

“Leave it alone, Sherlock. Go back to sleep.”

Sherlock hesitated, then rolled over, her back to Jo. “Fine, yes. Alright.”

 

It took less than two full days for Jo to get frustrated with Sherlock’s anxious hovering. She meant well, Jo knew, and she appreciated the concern. It was just - too much, at times. Sherlock, aside from the evident anxiety about Jo’s wellbeing, seemed unmoved by the loss of their baby. The coddling made Jo feel like an invalid, and like she was overreacting to what was, essentially, a particularly nasty period. Jo had been curled up on the couch with a hot water bottle and crap telly when she’d finally had enough.

“Can I get you anything?”

“I’m alright, thank you. ” Jo’s voice was slightly sharper than she’d intended.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind. I could make you a cup of tea, if you like?”

“Sherlock,” Jo said, her voice taking on the deadly calm tone it had when she was at the end of her patience. “If I need or want something, I will ask you. But my answer hasn’t changed in the ten minutes since you last asked.”

Sherlock frowned. “I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

Jo sighed, rubbing at the spot on her forehead where a headache threatened.“I know you do, sweetheart. And I appreciate it, I do. Just… I’m fine, okay? I don’t need to be coddled constantly.”

“You’re not _fine,_ though! You’re losing blood and clearly uncomfortable and at risk for any number of infections and complications! Is it such a bad thing that I want to take care of you?”

“Yes! I mean - well, no, but - Christ, Sherlock, I’m not a bloody child! I can take care of myself!” Without having decided to, Jo was on her feet, shouting at Sherlock. She knew she should probably stop, should probably apologise and thank Sherlock for taking care of her, especially when she’d been such an awful patient. Instead she stormed away and went upstairs to her old room. The sound of the door slamming behind her was loud in the heavy silence of the flat.

Sherlock stared after Jo for several long moments, unsure of how to react to her sudden, angry departure. Eventually she turned to the window and picked up her violin. She played for hours, mixing lullabies with funeral dirges with the softest, saddest pieces she knew.

Upstairs, Jo pulled a pillow over her head to try and block out the sound of Sherlock’s heart breaking.


	3. Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Hudson to the rescue!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Amber/williamsherlockscott-watson for beta'ing :)
> 
> This chapter contains mention of both abortion and a bit of recreational drug use, so if that's not your cup of tea, this might not be the fic for you!

Jo didn’t come back downstairs for the rest of the day. In fact, the only time Sherlock saw her for the next _two_ days was if she came downstairs to use the loo or make herself a cup of tea - which wasn’t often. She had tried knocking on Jo’s bedroom door each day at breakfast time to offer tea and toast, and again before she went to bed, but after two days of stoney silence Sherlock gave up. She had been giving Jo space, mostly because she had no idea what else to do, but now she was worried. Jo wasn’t eating enough, was isolating herself, clearly wasn’t doing well, and Sherlock _hated_ knowing that it was partially her fault.

Which was why, shortly after noon on the third day, Sherlock found herself standing in front of Mrs Hudson’s door. She had already raised her hand to knock three times, but hadn’t yet managed to make herself do it. She wasn’t sure if Jo would appreciate Sherlock asking Mrs Hudson to check on her, if she was doing the right thing, but she was out of ideas. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock knocked.

Mrs Hudson was smiling when she opened the door, but it faded quickly when she saw Sherlock (which was, Sherlock thought, mildly offensive. She didn’t look _that_ bad, did she?). “Oh, Sherlock, love, come in! Is everything alright? It’s been so quiet up there the last few days.”

Sherlock hesitated. Mrs Hudson had been the only person they’d told about the pregnancy, and she clearly didn’t know yet that Jo had miscarried - was it Sherlock’s place to tell her?

“Sherlock? Are you alright?”

“Not really, no. Do - do you have time to talk?”

“Of course I do, dear.” Mrs Hudson ushered Sherlock into her kitchen and sat her down. “I’ve just made tea, would you like a cup?”

Sherlock nodded slightly. “Please.” The precise control she usually maintained over mind and body meant that she didn’t burst into tears the moment Mrs Hudson was kind to her, but it was a close thing. She wrapped her arms around her belly, her shoulders hunched, and tried to blink the sudden burn of tears out of her eyes.

Mrs Hudson looked concerned. She laid a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Are you alright, dear? You’re very pale.”

“I… no, I’m not. But then neither is Jo, and I think that’s worse.”

“Poor dear,” Mrs Hudson said sympathetically, bustling around making tea. “Is she sick?”

Sherlock sprang to her feet, pacing the small kitchen restlessly. “No. Well, yes. Sort of. I -” she stopped and ran her hand through her curls. “I’m not even sure I should tell you, Jo should be the one to - but I can’t, she -”

“Sit down, dear. It’s alright, just sit down,” Mrs Hudson said, her voice stern but soothing.

“No, it’s not, it’s not alright! Jo - Jo is - the baby, and I -”

Mrs Hudson cut her off and rose to her feet. Taking Sherlock by the shoulders, she stopped her frantic pacing and set her back in a chair. “Hush now. Take a deep breath. Start at the beginning.”

For once, Sherlock did as she was told. She took several deep breaths, calming herself slightly. “A few nights ago,” she began slowly, “I got a phonecall. From - from the A&E where Jo works. She’d been admitted.”

At this Mrs Hudson gasped and covered her mouth, but didn’t interrupt, even though for a long moment Sherlock said nothing else.

“We…” Sherlock swallowed thickly, forcing back tears. “She lost the baby.”

“Oh, no!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed. “Oh, the poor love. I’m so sorry, Sherlock, sweetheart. Is there anything I can do?”

Sherlock hesitated, flushing. “I… we had an argument, two days ago. She hasn’t spoken to me since, and I don’t think she’s been eating… She’s been upstairs in her old bedroom, and she won’t let me in.”

Mrs Hudson nodded. “Would you like me to bring something up to her, dear? She really should be eating, she’ll need to keep up her strength.”

Despite this having been the reason Sherlock had gone downstairs, she suddenly felt guilty for imposing on Mrs Hudson’s kindness. She should be able to take care of her own wife, for chrissake! “You don’t have to,” she demurred. “That is, I would appreciate it, but if it’s too much trouble…”

“Oh, nonsense!” Mrs Hudson said dismissively. “The poor love is probably half-starved and doesn’t want to bother you. You said you’d had a bit of a domestic, I’d bet she’s too proud to ask for what she needs. I’ll just go up and talk some sense into her.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I just - she was so angry at me, but I’m worried about her…”

“Hush, now,” Mrs Hudson chided. “You just drink your tea, and I’ll fix you a bite to eat before I go upstairs to your Johanna, shall I?”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson. Thank you.”

“Of course, dear.”

 

Mrs Hudson knocked hesitantly on the door to Jo’s old bedroom, jostling the laden tea tray she was carrying.

“Jo? It’s Mrs Hudson, dear. Can I come in?”

Jo didn’t answer.

“Johanna, I know you’re in there. Please let me in.”

“I’m not much company at the moment, Mrs Hudson, sorry,” came Jo’s voice from the other side of the door. “I don’t really feel like talking.”

“You don’t have to talk, then, you just have to eat something.” Mrs Hudson replied sternly.

“I’m not hungry, Mrs H, but thanks anyway.”

“And when, exactly, was the last time you ate?” Mrs Hudson asked.

The question - and the tone -  reminded Jo forcibly of her grandmother, and she almost laughed, but didn’t answer. Her silence somehow managed to be both sulky and embarrassed at the same time.

“That’s what I thought. Let me in, dear, I’ve brought you soup.”

After a long moment, Jo opened the door to let Mrs Hudson in. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I haven’t felt much like cooking or eating these last few days.”

Mrs Hudson nodded. “Sherlock said you two had a bit of a spat. Did you want to talk about it? Might make you feel better.”

Jo looked up from where she was picking at the soup Mrs Hudson had handed her, her face paling. “How…” she stopped and swallowed hard. “How much did she tell you?”

“She told me everything,” Mrs Hudson replied after a long moment, “I’m so sorry, dear.”

Setting the soup aside, Jo hung her head. “She’s furious at me, isn’t she? She must be.”

Mrs Hudson looked surprised. “Of course not, dear. Why would she be?”

“Because I - I wasn’t, I couldn’t… She wanted it so badly, and I…”

“You stop that right now, Jo Watson. Losing your little one was a terrible thing, but it was absolutely _not_ your fault. Sherlock knows that. She adores you.” A pause. “In fact, she asked me come check on you, she’s terribly worried about you. You’re not eating enough, she said.”

“That explains the soup,” Jo said. “I know it wasn’t my fault. Logically, I know that. There’s nothing I could have done, and I tell patients the same thing. But I just… god, I can’t stop thinking of all the things I could have done differently. I stopped taking the prenatal vitamins the midwife recommended, did you know? They made me ill.” Jo paused. She set the barely-touched bowl of soup down and buried her face in her hands.

Mrs Hudson sat down next to her and put a warm hand on her back. “It wasn’t your fault, dear. Prenatal vitamins or no, miscarriage just happens sometimes. It’s no one’s fault.”

Jo sighed. “I know that, I do. I just… It feels like it’s my fault. It feels like a failure. I feel like _I’ve_ failed.”

“Oh, I know that feeling,” Mrs Hudson said wryly. “What’s a woman worth if she can’t have children, right?” Her voice turned gentle again. “It eats at you, that guilt. But you can’t let it.”

There was a long silence then. Jo lifted her head from her hands and finally allowed herself to lean on Mrs Hudson’s shoulder, who wrapped her arm around her.

“Why didn’t you ever have children, Mrs Hudson?” she asked after a few moments.

“Oh, Frank and I tried for years,” Mrs Hudson replied lightly. “I suppose it’s for the best, what with all that happened.”

“I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

“It’s long in the past now, dear, I don’t think much about it. But I thought it might do you some good to know that you’re not alone in this - plenty of women have trouble having a baby.”

“Thanks, Mrs H,” Jo said gratefully. “I know you’re right, I just… god, I feel like I’ve failed her, you know? I can’t imagine going through this over and over again. How did you bear it?”

“It was never really for me. Frank insisted that we ought to have children, and since I’d never thought much about it either way, I went along with it. It took ages for me to get pregnant the first time, but I wasn’t overly bothered.” She paused, looking suddenly sad and thoughtful. “I suppose it’s a bit sadder, isn’t it, when you really want it?”

Jo frowned at this new insight into Mrs Hudson’s past. Sherlock had alluded in the past to Mrs Hudson having been in a relationship that was more than a bit _not good_ , but Jo hadn’t known any of the details. “It is,” she agreed quietly.

Neither woman spoke for several more minutes. Mrs Hudson nudged Jo gently off of her shoulder and towards  the abandoned bowl of soup, which Jo picked at listlessly.

“Can I tell you something, Mrs H?” Jo asked eventually, breaking the silence.

“Of course you can, dear. What is it?”

“This isn’t. Um.” Jo paused and looked down at her lap. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been pregnant.”

“Oh, love. I didn’t know you and Sherlock had been trying for so long! I’m sorry. It doesn’t get any easier, does it?”

Jo shook her head. “No, it’s not that. Sherlock and I - no, this was our first pregnancy. I -” she took a deep breath, exhaling shakily. “I had an abortion, in uni. Sherlock doesn’t know.”

“I’m sorry, love. That’s almost as difficult as losing a wanted pregnancy, isn’t it?” Mrs Hudson squeezed her shoulders comfortingly. Without having been told, she seemed to know why Jo had brought it up. “Having to terminate a pregnancy doesn’t mean you don’t get a second chance. It was the right decision for you at the time, and it doesn’t make losing this baby your fault.”

“I just feel so guilty,” Jo said, her voice breaking. Her face was wet with tears when she looked up at Mrs Hudson. “I had the most awful nightmare the other night, and I just can’t shake it...”

They ended up talking for several more hours, about anything and everything that came to mind. Jo, who had never been particularly close with her mother, was grateful to have Mrs Hudson to talk to about what had happened. Talking about the nightmare she had had, about how guilty she felt about the miscarriage and the almost-forgotten abortion, helped to clear both her head and her conscience.

“Why don’t you come downstairs for a cup of tea, dear?” Mrs Hudson said during a break in their conversation. “It would do you good to get out of this dusty old room for a while.”

Jo hesitated. She was tired and achey and needed a shower - and probably a good cry. “Thanks, but I doubt you actually want to listen to me whinge any longer. I think I’ll just take a quick shower and go to bed.”

“Nonsense, dear, I don’t mind. I enjoy the company. Sherlock may be a bit jealous, though,” Mrs Hudson teased.

Jo smiled weakly. “I don’t think I can face her just yet. I feel bad, I should have been taking care of her and instead I snapped at her and told her off for trying to help. I just - I can’t, yet. Is that awful?”

“Of course not. Everyone grieves in their own way. You just worry about yourself for now, dear. I’m sure she’ll understand. I made sure she had a good meal today, and I can look in on you both tomorrow as well. She’ll be alright until you get your feet back under you.”

“Thanks, Mrs H,” Jo said gratefully. “You’re a saint.”

“Oh, pish. If I didn’t look after the two of you, who would? Now, why don’t you go have a shower and then come downstairs for a cup of tea?” Her smile turned mischievous. “Or maybe something stronger, if you’d like to share one of my herbal soothers with me?”

The sudden transition from serious, motherly landlady to offering to get high together almost made Jo laugh out loud. “I might take you up on the offer for a cuppa, but I’m not sure one of your, ah, _soothers_ is what I need at the moment.”

“Well, we’ll see, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, and winked at her.

 

The next morning Jo woke up stiff and groggy, but feeling better and more like herself than she had in days. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep at Mrs Hudson’s, and her neck and back were not pleased to have spent the night cramped on the hard old sofa.

The previous night, after a much-needed shower, Jo had padded downstairs in thick wool socks and a jumper pulled over her pyjamas. She’d felt a bit like she was back at uni, sneaking around the dorm after curfew.

The long conversation she’d had with Mrs Hudson had actually helped her to feel more like herself and less like she would be crushed by the weight of her guilt and grief; after a comfortingly steamy shower she had been looking forward to tea and crap telly - and, alright, maybe a bit of a smoke. They had spent the evening and into the night sitting on Mrs Hudson’s sofa, drinking endless cups of tea and passing half a joint back and forth. Their previous conversation having been so emotionally-charged, Jo had enjoyed the chance to set everything aside and relax with Mrs Hudson, who had become something of a mother to both her and Sherlock.

This morning though, with her mouth feeling foul from having forgotten to brush her teeth and her stiff body complaining at her, Jo felt decidedly less relaxed. The room was still dark; it was far too early for her to have woken on her own, especially after having stayed up so late the night before. For a few moments Jo lay very still, trying to figure out what had woken her.

The answer came quickly enough: the sounds of yelling and breaking dishes rang through the flat. _Sherlock_. Jo was on her feet in an instant, intending to go upstairs and see what was going on.

Sherlock’s crashing and yelling must have woken Mrs Hudson as well. She appeared in her bedroom doorway wrapped in a dressing gown. “That had better be her chemistry equipment she’s smashing and not my china!” she said by way of greeting.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson. I’ll just go and see what’s wrong, shall I?”

“Best to give her some time to cool off first, I think,” replied Mrs Hudson, bustling into the kitchen. “Since we’re both up, I may as well make us some breakfast.”

“Thanks, but I should probably make sure she's alright and not breaking anything important.”

“I insist, stay for a cup of tea at least. Better to wait it out than have a mug thrown at your head.”

Another crash sounded from the upstairs flat and Jo winced - it sounded like whatever it was had hit the door to the staircase. “On second thought,” she said, “maybe you're right. I'll go check on her when she's stopped throwing things.”

 

Two cups of tea and a stack of buttered toast later, Jo headed upstairs to a suspiciously quiet flat. Poking her head cautiously around the door, she was met with a sight even more unsettling than the silence: Sherlock was curled up on the couch in her pyjamas and dressing gown, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

“Sherlock?” Jo asked hesitantly. “Sweetheart, hey, what's this?” She crossed the room quickly and sat on the edge of the couch near Sherlock’s waist. She placed her hand on Sherlock’s back, rubbing gentle circles.

Sherlock shook her head without looking up and tried to shrink away from Jo’s touch, but said nothing.

“I’m so sorry, love. I've been selfish these past few days. But I'm here now. Let me take care of you, hmm?”

Curling in on herself even further, Sherlock shook her head again. Fine tremors wracked her body as if she was suppressing more sobs, but she stayed silent.

Jo’s heart broke. Clearly Sherlock was taking the loss of the pregnancy much harder than Jo had realised. “I’m sorry, love,” she said again. She lifted Sherlock’s head and shoulders gently off the couch, slid into the space underneath, and lay Sherlock’s head down in her lap. “I had no idea you were feeling so badly. I should have taken better care of you.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock mumbled, burying her face in Jo’s jumper and wrapping her arms around her waist. “You were - I should have - It’s fine.”

“No, bee, it’s not. I know that I’m the one physically miscarrying, but it’s _our_ grief, both of ours. I should have been there for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t.” She ran soothing fingers through Sherlock’s curls, untangling them. “But I’m here now, alright? You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but her breathing had evened out slightly, only occasional hitching sobs shaking her shoulders.

After a moment, Jo broke the silence. “Can I ask what happened to cause the broken dishes?”

Sherlock made a small, unhappy noise and pressed her face further into Jo’s stomach.

Smiling a little, Jo petted her hair. “Alright, we don’t have to talk about it. It’s okay, bee, I’m not angry with you, just worried.” Silence settled over them again. Sherlock was still crying quietly, if the growing wet spot on Jo’s jumper was any indication, but she didn’t seem to be as upset as she’d been before.

“I'll be right back, okay?” Jo said quietly a few minutes later. “I'm just going to get you some tissue.”

Sherlock nodded and untangled herself from Jo. She sat up and pulled her dressing gown close around herself, curling her knees up under her chin.

Jo reappeared quickly with a tall glass of water and a box of tissue. “Here, sweetheart,” she said gently. She wrapped her back around Sherlock and tucked her close to her side, settling the box of tissue on their laps and offering the water to Sherlock.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured. She sipped delicately at the water before setting it aside and leaning into Jo. “I’m sorry I -” she paused. “I’m sorry for, well, this. I should have been taking care of you, not the other way around.”

“You don’t have to apologise, sweetheart. Of course I’ll take care of you.” Jo laced their fingers together, lifted them to her mouth and kissed the wedding ring on Sherlock’s slim finger. “I promised when I gave you this ring that I’d always take care of you. I intend to keep that promise.”

Sherlock smiled and sniffled, curling into Jo and burying her face in her shoulder without disentangling their hands. “Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too, bee. Let’s have a shower and go to back to bed for a little while, hmm? I think we could both use a cuddle.” Jo rubbed at Sherlock’s back briskly and leaned forward, encouraging her to stand. Ignoring the mess of broken glass in the kitchen and the abandoned glass of water, she lead Sherlock by the hand down the hall.


	4. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just because we didn’t get to meet her, doesn’t mean we don’t get to remember her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merci infiniment à Emily for her help with editing <3

Time didn’t stop for grief.

Time passed strangely, each day seeming endless; and yet it seemed like Jo had barely blinked and two weeks had passed. The bleeding from the miscarriage had stopped, and then it was almost like she hadn’t been pregnant.

After the incident with the broken dishes, and the comfort and conversations that had followed, Sherlock felt… better. Sort of. She was no longer furiously angry, no longer felt quite so battered and bruised and broken by grief. It still hurt, of course. Far worse than Sherlock had expected. Worse, she noticed families everywhere she went. All of London seemed to have a newborn baby in their arms. But she tried not to be obvious about the fact that she was still hurting. She had Jo to take care of, after all.

Sherlock knew that Jo was still grieving -- of course she was, she blamed herself, felt like she’d failed Sherlock -- but didn’t know what to do about it. She scoured the internet -- blogs, parenting websites, anything she could find -- for advice on what to do to help, how to make it easier for Jo. Eventually she ended up with a list of advice that seemed reasonable, without forcing Jo to talk about it. Jo had closed herself off slightly, after the night she’d spent with Mrs Hudson and the day after spent comforting Sherlock, so Sherlock looked for suggestions that were more to do with practical support than emotional support

  * Help out around the flat (note -- do not mollycoddle too much; Jo hates to feel useless)
  * No experiments in the kitchen
  * Prepare tea and coffee as necessary
    * Prepare meals
  * Be prepared to talk about the baby (?)
  * Clear out nursery (?)
    * Finish nursery (???)



And so Sherlock tried. She finished the renovations in 221C, making a lab out of the reach of toddlers and away from the now-sanitary kitchen; the fridge was filled with groceries rather than biological specimens. Sherlock tidied up around the flat, rented movies she knew Jo loved, bought a new coffee maker and programmed it to be ready for Jo’s early shifts. Jo never commented on _why_ Sherlock was doing any of these things, but Sherlock occasionally caught her watching, with a look that seemed to say _I know what you’re doing_ and _stop coddling me_ and _thank you_ all at once. Sherlock worked so hard taking care of Jo that she rather repressed the fact that _she’d_ lost the baby too, even if she hadn’t been the one carrying it.

The first two times Sherlock came home to find Jo curled up on the sofa, crying and listening to something through her earbuds, she wasn’t sure what to do. Would Jo want Sherlock there with her? Or were the earbuds meant to signal a desire for privacy? She’d been so closed off about the rest of her grief that Sherlock was uncertain of her welcome in this. Instead of saying anything, she made Jo a cup of tea, left it within arm’s reach, and made herself scarce.

The third time, instead of disappearing into her new lab, Sherlock sat on the edge of the sofa near Jo’s feet. “Jo?”

Jo didn’t answer. She was curled away from the room, earbuds in her ears, phone clutched in her hands. Whatever was playing was _loud_ , and Sherlock could hear it faintly. It didn’t sound like music, it sounded like...

“Jo?” Sherlock repeated. “Is that -- are you listening to the heartbeat recording the midwife gave us?”

Jo tugged one of the earbuds out. “It’s -- I found it in my -- I --”

“Oh, Jo,” Sherlock’s voice was soft and sad. “I’m so sorry, I forgot it was still in your email. I’m so sorry, love.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Then:

“Do you want to listen to it?” Jo asked hesitantly.

The offer shocked Sherlock slightly. She blinked. “What?”

“Sorry, it’s just… it’s all we have of her, and I just… I don’t want to forget.”

Sherlock blinked again, surprised. She had been trying to put the pregnancy out of her mind, avoided thinking about the baby they had lost because it was painful, and because Jo needed her. But Jo’s suggestion that she do the opposite, and that she _share_ , was… good. There was no harm in it, Sherlock decided, if a bit hesitantly. “I… yes, alright. Yes.”

Jo smiled a weak, watery smile and held out one of the earbuds. “Do you think it would have been a boy or a girl? If I hadn’t….”

Sherlock stuck the earbud in her ear and pulled Jo close. “It wasn’t your fault, you know,” she said over the tiny, rushing heartbeat in their ears. “I don’t blame you for what happened.”

“Thank you,” Jo replied, though she didn’t sound like she believed it.

Sherlock closed her eyes and held Jo closer, but said nothing. After a few moments she felt gentle fingers wiping tears she hadn’t even noticed were falling from her cheeks. Without opening her eyes, Sherlock pressed her lips to the top of Jo’s head in silent thanks.

They listened to the recording all the way through four times. It was just under a minute long, so before five minutes passed Sherlock had taken the earbud away from Jo and wrapped her even tighter in her arms. “Please don’t shut me out again,” she said quietly. “I’ve tried giving you space, but I can’t stand seeing you hurting like this anymore. What can I do to help?”

Jo didn’t answer right away, looking far away and thoughtful. “I think it would have been a little girl,” she murmured eventually, seemingly apropos of nothing. “I’ve always wanted a daughter.”

She still wasn’t looking at Sherlock, having buried her face in Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock kissed her head  again, not entirely sure what to say to comfort her. “You’re going to be an amazing mother some day. Any little girl would be lucky to have you.”

Jo smiled up at her a little sadly and kissed her. “So will you, you know.”

“What would you have wanted to name her?” Sherlock asked, deciding to try some of the dubious internet advice. It couldn’t hurt, could it?

“I’m not sure,” Jo replied, her voice quiet and sad again. “I hadn’t really thought about it. I always sort of liked Grace, though. Or Katherine, maybe.”

“I like Grace,” Sherlock agreed.

“I’d hoped she would look like you. And have your ridiculous cleverness.”

“I wanted her to be compassionate, like you. To have your kindness, and your bravery.”

Jo smiled a little. They were silent for a while.

After a few minutes, Jo took a deep breath. “Sherlock, I… I don’t think I can do that again. I’m nearly forty, the chances of miscarrying will only get higher and I just --” she cut herself off, suppressing a sob. “I couldn’t handle going through that again. It just hurts too much.”

Sherlock’s arms tightened almost convulsively around Jo, hugging her impossibly closer. “You don’t have to. I’m… not sure how I feel about it, either. It’s been difficult, seeing you hurting and not knowing what to do about it. And… losing the baby, that was. Not good.”

They were both crying at this point, hot tears streaming down their faces and soaking Sherlock’s shirt. Neither of them made any move to wipe them away, though.

Jo sniffled and frowned, slightly taken aback by Sherlock’s quiet confession. “You seemed so unaffected by it, after the first few days... “ she trailed off, a guilty expression crossing her face, then shook her head. “I’m so sorry, love. I should know better than that by now. I know you’re not the unfeeling arse you like to pretend to be.” The joke fell slightly flat. “Are you alright, sweetheart? I feel like we’ve hardly spoken lately.”

Sherlock hesitated. “I’m… alright. About as well as can be expected, I suppose. I’ve been worried about you, and trying to keep busy. It’s -- easier. If I don’t think about it. If I don’t think about _her.”_

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I should have been taking better care of you. I’ve been selfish, caught up in my own head. I’m sorry I didn’t see.”

“No, it’s not -- I didn’t want you to see. I -- it wasn’t me, I wasn’t actively _having a miscarriage_ , of course it affected you more strongly, you _should_ have been focusing on yourself. I just… god, I didn’t think it would hurt so much.”

“Come here, bee.” Jo turned, shifting them both until she was holding Sherlock against her chest. She pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head before speaking again. “Listen to me, hm? I know you weren’t carrying our baby, sweetheart, but you lost her just as much as I did. And you’re allowed to grieve, and to be angry, and to be hurt. But we’re in this together, yeah? Both of us.”

Sherlock nodded and swallowed a sob, burying her face in Jo’s shoulder. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too, Sherlock. I love you so, so much.”

“I love you,” Sherlock repeated, her voice breaking. “I love you, and I’m sorry I -- sorry I asked you --” she broke down, sobbing into Jo’s shoulder.

“No, no…” Jo murmured. “No, sweetheart. Don’t apologize. Shh, no. I wanted to, love. I wouldn’t have said yes if I hadn’t. Shh…” she trailed off, drawing Sherlock closer, into her lap, and rocking her slightly. “It’s alright, sweetheart. Shh, it’s okay now. I’ve got you.” Sherlock was shaking in her arms, her thin shoulders heaving as she fought to draw breath. Clearly, Jo thought, it wasn’t just guilt about having asked Jo to carry their baby that had her in tears -- it was likely _everything_ , grief and anger and guilt and exhaustion and fear, everything she’d been internalizing and suppressing for the past two weeks, all coming out at once now that she was giving in to it.

After a few long minutes, Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath, clearly trying to calm herself down, and sagged against Jo. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to thank me, bee.”

They fell silent, Jo stroking Sherlock’s back and hair until they were both calm again.

Eventually, Sherlock sat back and looked intently at Jo. “I was meant to be comforting you,” she frowned, “not the other way around.”

Jo smiled. “I know you meant to, love. But I’d much rather take care of you -- you’ve been doing so much for me, the last little while. I’ve felt… useless, since we lost the baby. Taking care of you makes me feel better.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened. She swiped huffily at the tears on her cheeks, suddenly seeming annoyed with herself. “But you -- I --” she broke off, sighed. Tried again. “I _want_ to be able to take care of you, I _want_ to coddle you and do everything for you. It doesn’t make you useless. Miscarriage --” Sherlock broke off again and sniffled, holding back fresh tears. “Losing a baby is -- I can’t even imagine how that feels, Jo. She would have been mine too, yes, but it’s not my body. And all I can do is try to make it easier for you. But we’ve hardly spoken for the past _two weeks_ , not about anything important, and I just didn’t know what to do or say. I just -- I need you to tell me how to help. Please?

Jo’s eyes had filled with tears again, but this time she was smiling. She kissed Sherlock’s mouth, her cheeks, her forehead, her chin. “You’ve already helped, sweetheart. You’ve done so much, and I’m sorry I haven’t been able to tell you how much it’s helped, and how much I appreciate it.”

Sherlock kissed her back, but didn’t answer verbally. They sat there in the quiet for long minutes, wrapped up in each other. Healing. Together, finally.

“Can I tell you something?” Jo asked eventually. She sounded uncertain.

Sherlock kissed her cheek. “Of course. Always.”

“I probably should have told you sooner. I haven’t told anyone, actually, except Mrs Hudson.”

“You’re worrying me, Jo. What is it? You know you can tell me anything.”

“I… god, this is harder than I thought it would be.” Jo took a deep, shaky breath before continuing. “I had an abortion in uni, Sherlock. I was drunk and slept with some guy, and I got pregnant, and I just… I couldn’t have a baby then, I just couldn’t. So I got an abortion. It was… I thought I’d have another chance, you know? I didn’t think that would be my only chance to have a baby. I thought I had time. And now -- after losing our baby, our baby that you wanted so badly -- I can’t help thinking that that’s _my_ fault, because I was selfish and stupid in uni.”

Sherlock frowned, but pulled Jo closer. “You know what I’m going to say, I hope,” she said, kissing her head.

“Probably exactly what Mrs H said.”

“Mrs Hudson is an extremely intelligent woman, so yes, probably.”

“Say it anyway? Please?” Jo’s voice was small.

“Of course.” Another kiss, this time to Jo’s cheek. “It wasn’t your fault, Jo. Miscarriage is no one’s fault, I know you know that. You’re an excellent doctor, after all. It just happens sometimes.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Hush, I haven’t finished. Losing this baby was _not your fault._ And deciding to have an abortion… it’s not easy. You did what was best for yourself, and for your future. A bundle of unplanned cells is not the same as a wanted baby. Losing our baby is not punishment for not having that one, so please put that out of your mind.”

“I’ve tried, I really have. It’s difficult, though. I -- I had a nightmare, that first night, do you remember?”

“Yes. You were devastated, and wouldn’t let me help. I wish you had.”

“I’m sorry, love. I should have talked to you then. But my point is, the nightmare I had… it was this little girl, not old enough to be --” she broke off and shuddered “-- you know. But I knew, in the dream, that that’s what she was. And she was holding a baby… she asked me why I didn’t want them. Why I didn’t love them.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to shiver, then. “That’s appalling. Your subconscious is ridiculous. Of course you loved our baby. How could you not? But all the love in the world can’t save a non-viable pregnancy. I’m sorry I didn’t wake you up.”

“I hadn’t thought about the abortion in -- god, in years. But now it’s all I can think about. I feel like -- like I’ve done something terrible. I know -- part of me, the part doctor part, knows that that’s ridiculous. I haven’t done anything wrong. But I almost…” Jo laughed humourlessly. “I almost want to go to Confession, as ridiculous as it sounds. I’m not religious, not since I was a child and didn’t have a choice about going to Sunday school. But I almost do.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful, if a bit confused. “If it’s forgiveness you need, you have it. There’s nothing to forgive, but I forgive you.”

“Thank you, bee. I know it’s mad, but I needed to hear that.”

“I… don’t understand it, really. I’m not religious, I’ve never dealt with so-called ‘Catholic guilt’. But I can understand wanting someone you love to tell you that everything will be okay. That I can do.”

Jo smiled slightly and snuggled closer in response. There was another long silence, but this time it was comfortable, relaxed and warm and full of love.

Eventually they both dozed off, curled up together on the sofa.

 

Jo blinked herself awake what could have been either minutes or hours later. “Wake up, love,” she said, nudging Sherlock.

“Mmph, no,” Sherlock grumbled, snuggling down further into Jo and the sofa.

“Come on, bee, up you get. I want to shower and go to bed.”

Sherlock squinted sleepily at her. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” Jo wheedled. “Please? I just want to be close to you, and take care of you. Just for a little while. We’re both exhausted. Let me do this for you, and then take you to bed and hold you until everything hurts a little less.”

“Alright, then. I suppose, if you really want to…” Sherlock teased, allowing Jo to manhandle her to her feet.

Jo kissed her cheek, fond and mock-exasperated. “Oh shut up, you git. You love having your hair washed for you.”

“Only by you, Jo. Only by you.”

Jo smiled warmly at her and lead her by the hand towards the bathroom.

 

By the time they had showered, brushed their teeth, and curled up in bed, Sherlock was no longer warm and pliant and relaxed. Instead, there was tension lingering in her face, in the way she held herself just slightly too carefully away from Jo.

“Jo?” she asked shyly, after a moment.

“Hmm?”

“Are… are we okay?”

“Of course we are, sweetheart. Why would you ask that?” Jo tried to pull her close, but Sherlock was stiff and uncomfortable.

Sherlock didn’t answer. She wriggled and refused to meet Jo’s eyes.

“Sherlock? What is it, love? Have I done something to make you think something was wrong?”

“No, it’s just… When you were -- when I was -- I didn’t know how to help, how to make you feel better. So I did some research. And it said… it said that sometimes, after losing a child, couples can fall apart. The grief and resentment and… everything, it’s too much, and they separate.”

“Oh, bee, no. That’s not us. You’ve taken such good care of me, and from now on I’m going to take care of you.” Jo took Sherlock’s hand, raised it to her mouth, and kissed her wedding ring, the palm of her hand, her wrist. “I promised you, the day I put this ring on your finger, that I would always, always take care of you. I’m sorry you’ve been anxious about this, but you don’t have to be. I love you, and nothing can change that.”

Sherlock nearly sagged with relief. “Thank you. I love you too.” She paused, then said, “And I’m glad we’re not shutting each other out anymore. I didn’t like that.”

“I didn’t either, love. No more, alright? We can handle just about anything, but only if we do it together.”

“Yes. Together.”

Jo smiled and took Sherlock in her arms. “Good. Now come here, I want to kiss you.”

 

Later, Sherlock and Jo were woken by Mrs Hudson clattering around in the kitchen.

“Sherlock? Johanna?” she called. “Are you girls awake? I made soup, I thought you might need it.”

“Mrs Hudson, you are a saint.” Jo said, leaving the bedroom wrapped up in one of Sherlock's many dressing gowns. “Let me help you with that.”

“No, no, you sit down, dear. I’ll take care of this. You two just relax.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, putting the kettle on and sitting next to Jo at the table.

“I’ve been so worried about the two of you. How are you?”

“We’re…” Sherlock hesitated and looked at Jo, who nodded.

“We’re alright,” Jo affirmed, taking Sherlock’s hand. “We’ll be alright.”

“You both seem a little brighter today. I’m so glad. Has the bleeding stopped yet, Johanna dear?”

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock blurted, shocked.

“Um. Yeah, it stopped a couple of days ago,” replied Jo, a bit awkwardly.

“Sorry, dear, I shouldn’t pry. But I _am_ glad. You can put the whole terrible thing behind you now.”

Jo was quiet for a moment. Sherlock glanced uneasily at her, unsure how she would react. Jo seemed fine, since they’d talked and cried and slept, and Sherlock hoped Mrs Hudson’s prying wouldn’t change that.

“I’m not sure I want to put it behind me, exactly.” Jo replied hesitantly. “I… Sherlock and I talked, about the baby. I don’t want to forget our baby, the baby we would have had. Not really.”

Mrs Hudson frowned, looking like she might protest. Sherlock quickly cut her off. “We don’t have to,” she said, a suggestion she had found online suddenly occurring to her. “We can remember her, of course we can. We’ll save the recording, and --” Sherlock cut herself off, suddenly unsure.

“And what, love?” Jo prompted. “What were you going to suggest?”

“Well… When I was looking for ways to help you feel better, some of the sites suggested that we make a keepsake of sorts. I thought we could get a sonogram printed and framed. We could put it on the mantle.” Sherlock paused, then smiled crookedly. “It could keep the skull company.”

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson scolded, but she was laughing. “Don’t be morbid!”

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Jo smiled. “Just because we didn’t get to meet her, doesn’t mean we don’t get to remember her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is a little more uplifting than the last one! It came out a little sadder and heavier than I'd expected, but I'm pleased with it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! And thanks for reading :)
> 
> I've decided to end this fic here, and post what would have been the next chapter as it's own work, since it's almost entirely different in tone. So keep an eye out for that!

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for hospitals/medical content and for miscarriage  
> Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading!  
> 


End file.
